Tourmaline
by Dana Janeway
Summary: "I have always believed that if we are going to suffer, we should do it quietly."
1. Prologue

Prologue

Vulnerability... It isn't something I've ever liked to feel, much less to acknowledge. It's okay for some people, for victims, but not for me. How can I fight so hard for victims and harbor this secret contempt for them?

Today I feel vulnerable in armor, in my bullet-proof vest with my gun belt and my loaded gun. I might as well be naked. There is nothing that will cover the scars, that will make me not exposed, not a sight to be gawked at and pitied.

It has been almost six months since my attack, six months since I felt the barrel of a gun in my mouth and that breath on my neck, that terrible, sick, rancid breath from the lungs of a man who ought not to exist. But he does. And there are others.

I have always believed that if we are going to suffer, we should do it quietly. There is something ennobling about keeping our greatest hardships secret. I don't like to cry out in pain when I'm hurt, to lash out in anger when I've been confronted. I like to wait; to take it in, to feel every indignation, every cut, every scratch, and to let these things become a part of me. I absorb it all. At least, that's what my therapist says I do.

He suggested, in fact, that I start keeping this journal. When I was young, I was a good student, and I liked to write. But over the years I've become so accustomed to working with a weapon in my hand, that a pen can seem rather useless. I'm a perfectionist in everything, and I don't think I could be much of a writer if I tried. But I suppose that isn't really the point.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading! This is a story that is very close to my heart, and I'm writing it out of deep respect to all of the people I have known who have lived through any type of trauma. It's also a love story, so I hope you enjoy! -Dana

Chapter One

"Liv... _Liv._ You check this guy's history yet? Earth to Liv."

"What? Sorry. No priors. Not even a parking ticket."

"Damn, how are we gonna nail him."

"I guess you're convinced, then?"

Fin frowned at me. "Well, you heard what Huang said. We're looking for someone who knew her, probably had a grudge against her. I'd say this Jeremiah definitely qualifies. He's almost twenty years older, he leaves his wife and kids for her, they get married, three months later she files for divorce and takes him for all he's worth. Sonofabitch has got to be pissed off."

_No, it wasn't that_. It was the victim's eyes, her shell-shocked, horrified dead eyes staring at me from the slab. They told a story, those eyes, and it wasn't about a love-struck insurance broker named Jeremiah.

I ran my hand through my hair, intensely uncomfortable. This certainly wasn't the first time I had disagreed with Huang, but it was the first time I didn't have a good reason. I had a hunch, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I was determined to follow it. Where Huang saw a rape-homicide perpetrated by someone known to the victim, I saw something else. But I didn't know why.

Lewis.

A compulsive serial offender, motivated to attack, torture and kill because it is his deepest desire to do so. He will target animals, children, strangers, anyone. The entire world is a loathed and detested object to be dominated and swallowed up into his narcissistic self-concept. He is a predator by nature, unable to receive love or to give it, and he identifies only with his compulsive need to take sexual pleasure in the annihilation of another.

And now, he is everywhere. I see him everywhere, in my thoughts, in my dreams, as I walk through the city. I see him reflected in the destruction around me, whether he is there or not, whether I have concrete evidence or not for his presence. Everything, every evil in this world, can be traced back to him.

My hand trembled holding my search results, not daring to look up from my desk. This is it, I thought. This is the end, this is the time to pack it in. When you've become nothing more than a hack profiler out to prove that every crime in history was committed by the same monster.

"...Olivia? Hey, are you okay?"

If there is one thing I hate about Fin, it's his soft side. He would be so much easier to understand if it just weren't there.

"Yeah, I'm fine Fin. Let's take a trip to Jeremiah's insurance office."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sometimes I think that what happened to me has given me a bipolar disorder. One minute I feel like a mouse, smaller and more ashamed than I have ever felt in my life. And then in another minute I become a warrior, proud, boastful, cocksure, and out for blood.

Sometimes, I have a great need to be around people. Having Brian in my life has afforded me a great comfort in this regard. It seemed to happen at the right time, that when I really needed it, there was someone to come home to. I need his presence, like some sort of transitional object to help me cope with the real world outside.

But the rest of the time, I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin. I feel trapped, suffocated by New York City and the people around me. There is some force inside of me, telling me that the only way I can heal is to be utterly alone.

Today was one of those days, when every voice and every stare rattled my nerves. I've gotten good at stifling my reflexes, but they are still there, and today I jumped a mile because of a skidding tire. I live in terror that someone is going to notice, and take my gun away. My tour came to an end, and still no Jeremiah. The Captain didn't see fit to pursue other leads at the moment, and I could offer no concrete alternatives. I didn't want to go home, not really due to frustration about the case, but something else, this feeling that if I couldn't be alone with my thoughts, I might scream out loud.

It was in one of these moments of self-imposed solitude that I saw her, Alexandra Cabot, standing in the doorway of the same bar we had frequented together for five years. She looked like a runway model and I looked like hell, after a ten-hour tour and wrangling with a Captain whose patience was wearing unusually thin.

My first instinct was to hope she wouldn't see me. I turned my head and looked deeply into my untouched drink, willing myself to acquire that long sought-after power of invisibility. All detectives, I think, would be better off if they were invisible at least some of the time.

I counted to ten, slowly.

"Olivia?"

_Damn._ I forced my eyes to turn away from the table and to meet her gaze.

"Alex," I said aimlessly. "You're back?"

I found it impossible not to stare at her. I simply could not understand how someone could look so perfect all the time. Her shoes, her stockings with no holes, her black skirt and black suit jacket under a beige coat that was also perfect – and her face, which at the end of a long day never really looked haggard, only thoughtful and maybe the slightest bit complacent. I remembered her steel blue eyes behind black frames, and her bright red lipstick.

She was saying something about being in town for a case, something about racketeering. I wasn't listening. I was examining her hair and asking myself how there was not a strand out of place with the wind howling the way it was. I couldn't figure out if it annoyed me, or if I was envious of it. Or if I was happy to see her.

"Olivia, are you listening to a word I'm saying?"

"What?" I –"

She laughed. "It's okay, I'm not offended. I've been in D.C., and I'm only here for a week or so to do some fact checking. I would have called, but..."

"We all know that isn't your strong suit," I said automatically, ungenerously.

She frowned. "Actually, I didn't call because I wasn't sure you would want to hear from me."

I said nothing, and she quietly slipped into the stool next to me. "Olivia, I heard that... that something happened to you. I don't know the details, and I know it isn't my place to ask. But I want you to know that despite any evidence to the contrary, I'm still your friend."

I considered that point carefully. I had felt very abandoned by this woman, on more than one occasion, and for some reason today it all seemed more poignant; the fact that she had left, and come back, and reappeared in my life years too late, and things had never been the same between us.

"Alex," I said, looking back up at her, resigned. I glanced around the bar, which was filling up and fueling my claustrophobia. "Look, do you want to get out of here?"

PAGE BREAK

We circled the park for hours, until it got dark, and the street lamps came on. I wondered if she had somewhere to go, but she didn't ask me if I did. I told her about Lewis. I wasn't sure if I should, or if I even wanted to, but the words came pouring out before I could stop them.

"The worst part isn't remembering what he did, or the parts that I can remember. It's that he's still here, he's everywhere to me. In this park, over on that bench, maybe a passenger on that bus. He's with me all the time, and...I know it's affecting my work. I'm on a case right now, the rape-homicide of a thirty-year-old woman. I can't...see straight Alex, I can't even consider the suspect that seems likeliest to everyone else. I see a stranger killing her, a stranger like Lewis. Someone who is hunting the city as we speak looking for another stranger, an unsuspecting young woman he has never seen before, but who he hates, just because she is alive."

I hadn't realized how bitterly cold it was outside until I felt the sharp sting of tears on my cheek.

"Alex, I think I'm going to lose my job. My therapist asked me why I had to do it, why it had to be me and not someone else out there protecting people. I wanted to punch him, but the fact is that he was right. Maybe I can't do it anymore. I nearly had a heart attack today because someone slammed on his brakes at the corner of forty-second street."

We had made another full circle, and I laid my hand on top of the black metal fence. I nearly moved my hand away because the metal was so cold, but I stopped when I felt the light pressure of her gloved hand upon my bare one.

"You know, Olivia," she said, looking out toward the street, "a lot of people probably do question you, and your resolve to continue doing this job. They probably wonder if your ordeal was too much, and if it's prevented you from being able to look at things objectively."

She paused, and I felt the horror of what she was about to say – that she agreed with them, that it was my time to step back, that this trauma had cost me my career.

"I'm not a gardener," she said quietly, "and I've never had much of an interest in the topic. But I've always been amazed by plants that can actually bloom in the winter. Sometimes they just push their way out of the snow, and they're so beautiful, because everywhere else all you see is ice and frozen branches. But there they are, these flowers, and they look so delicate, yet they thrive in the harshest of conditions. I don't know if you've ever seen one. But I have."


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I woke up late, probably two hours after Brian had left for work. My head was spinning, and I felt slightly nauseous, realizing that I had Freudian-slipped my alarm clock into ringing at 7 PM. The morning light was gray, signaling a dark day ahead.

I used to enjoy taking showers in fairly cold or lukewarm water. I used to like the shock of that feeling in the morning, ripping me out of a sleep-state, sharpening my senses. Nowadays I only use hot water, and it never really wakes me up, but I think that might be for the best.

As I walked to the precinct, I thought about poor old Jeremiah. I wondered what it would be like to be a man in his fifties, in a dead-end job, bored with work and family life. And then to meet a beautiful young woman, so full of life and energy. She swept him off his feet, most likely he couldn't believe that someone so young would be attracted to him. She promised him the world, a second chance at youth and romance and excitement. And then she took it all away.

Was that enough of a motive to rape and kill? I It would depend on the personality of this man – was he self-important, did he feel entitled to good things and enraged when they escaped his grasp? Or was he weak-willed, vulnerable to the charms of younger women, and too wrapped up in his own self-pity to care about the pain he had caused his own family?

The sharp ring of my phone cut my thoughts short. I felt a flood of relief that it wasn't the Captain, ready to berate me for being late.

"Hey Bri."

"Hey there, sleepy-head. You gonna be on time for work?"

"More or less," I said, squinting in the sun's gray glare.

"You got home late last night. Was it that rape-homicide you're working on?"

"Oh," I replied absently. "No. Um, Alex Cabot is back in town on a case, and we caught up for awhile."

"Oh joy, the Witch of the West has returned."

I grinned. "Relax Brian, she isn't here to bust your chops. She's working on an appeals case in D.C., and she's only here for a few days. You probably won't even have to see her."

"From your lips to God's ears. I'll see you at home later?"

"Yes you will! Have a good day, Bri. Bye."

I hung up and resumed my walk, but my thoughts about the case began to fade away, and to be replaced. I passed a small florist's shop, and I saw a bouquet of bright red roses lightly pressed against the window. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I ought to send them to Alex's office, to thank her for the talk we had shared. Twelve minutes late to work wasn't so much more offensive than seven minutes, after all.

"That's Cabot. C...A...B...O...T."

"And what address would you like these sent to, ma'am?"

"Um, Sixty Centre Street...Number Five..."

"Would you like to send a card?"

She slipped me a small card, a few inches wide. I held the pen in my hand, and all of a sudden I froze, unable to make a mark on the plain white paper.

_Dear Alex...I wanted to thank you..._

_Dear Alex...It was great to see you...I would love to see you again before..._

_Dear Alex..._

I put the pen down.

"You know, I - I don't think I'm going to send these after all," I said to the puzzled florist, and left the shop hurriedly.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"We got news," said Fin, ignoring my lateness. "Jeremiah hasn't shown up for work in six days. Missing persons just put out an APB on him."

"Did we check his apartment?"

"No sign of him. Neighbors haven't seen him either. His stuff is still there, but a few knives are missing. CSU also found a rope in his bedroom, twenty bucks says it's a match to the marks on the victim's throat. Still think he's innocent?"

I made a face. "I never said that, Fin."

"Yeah, but I can read you like a book. You're lucky Amaro is away, because I can tell what you're thinking even when you're in no mood to talk. You've got a whole other theory about this case, don't you? 'S okay Benson, you don't have to share. Come on, we need to find this guy."

PAGE BREAK

As I rode with Fin, it occurred to me that I really was slightly glad Amaro was away on assignment. I like Nick very much, but there is something terribly comforting about working with someone so familiar.

"Here you go," said Fin, getting back into the car and handing me a coffee. "Guy at the auto parts store says he saw someone fitting Jeremiah's description at 7:15 yesterday morning. Apparently he's into fixing up old cars, there's a garage on the other side of the tunnel we should check out."

"You think he could have been hiding out there for two days?"

"Dude's got no passport, there's no evidence that he's ever been out of New York City. I'd say it's worth a shot."

I smiled gamely. "Let's hit the road."

PAGE BREAK

"Traffic's terrible."

"Hm."

"Did you see what that bastard just tried to do?"

"Hm."

"I'd like to rear-end that moron."

"Hm."

"And then I'd like to have his babies."

"Hm."

"Liv! What is going on with you?"

I jumped a mile. "What do you mean? I agree with you, that driver's an asshole. Where is this garage again?"

Fin gave me a reproachful glance before turning his eyes back to the road. "It's just up the block."

I sighed. "Look, Fin. I'm sorry..."

"It's okay. But if your head's not together, you gotta let me know. You've been through a lot lately."

"I'm fine."

He sent me another, slightly less venomous version of the same glance. "Yeah? Why do you keep checking your cell phone every thirty seconds? Expecting an SMS from the Queen of England or something?"

I turned beet red, and muttered something about the battery.

A few minutes later, we reached the rental garage and found it open. It was eerily quiet but for an antiquated radio playing classic rock. A red convertible with a white stripe and an open door.

"Somebody's having a midlife crisis."

"Looks that way...Fin."

I had crept around the other side of the car, and stood motionless.

"What is it?"

"Jeremiah."

His body was contorted and lying in a pool of dried blood. He had cuts on both of his wrists, and his throat had been slit. The weapon lay inches away from his outstretched hand.

Despite myself, I jumped again when my cell phone rang.

"Benson."

"Olivia."

"Captain, look, we found – "

"Olivia, you've got to get back to the house now. There's been another murder."

My head was spinning. A thousand emotions ran through me; I felt at once triumphant, vindicated, angry, guilty, and relieved. I drew in my breath, willing myself to keep calm.

"Olivia?"

I looked at Fin squarely in the eyes. "I told you he was innocent."


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

"So there's another murder, same M.O., and the prime suspect off's himself before he could have committed the second one."

"I'd say that about sums it up," I said, swirling the wine in my glass and smiling at Brian's talent for succinctness.

"Isn't it still possible that he could have committed the first murder?"

"It is, but Huang is beginning to change his point of view. The victim was Jeremiah's ex-wife. Whoever raped her was careful about covering his tracks. If he had done it, it would have looked more like a crime of passion."

Brian raised his eyebrows. "That's a change of direction. Is Huang thinking these are stranger homicides?"

"I'm not sure," I said, "but I do. I've thought so all along."

"Pretty good instincts there, Detective."

I lowered my eyes. "I think it was more of a hunch than anything else," I said quietly.

There was a part of me that wanted to confide in Brian about the way I had been doubting myself. But something held me back. I wanted him to think I was getting better.

As I sat with Brian and listened to him recount his day, I once again allowed my mind to wander. I was dimly aware that this was becoming habitual – half-listening during important or unimportant conversations, becoming lost in my own head. But I was helpless against it. I thought back to the night before, to the vision of Alex's profile in the dimly lit park, as she told me about the snowdrop, and the camellia, and the weeping winter jasmine. She hadn't looked at me once when she spoke those words, she just continued to gaze out into the street. The streetlamp had accentuated the curve of her cheek, and the brightness of her eyes. I saw her breath disappear into the cold air, her hair blowing lightly in the wind, her perfect upturned nose, and the outline of her lips. Not irritatingly perfect, or frustratingly perfect. Just... perfect.

"Olivia?"

"What? Yes!"

He laughed. "I was asking what time the electrician is coming tomorrow to fix the baseboard."

I let out an uneven breath. "Around nine. I am so sorry Bri, I'm just... a little distracted."

"What's on your mind?" He got up to clear the table.

I paused, before deciding there was no reason to be dishonest. "I was thinking about something Alex Cabot said to me."

Brian rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Liv, are you having an affair with Alexandra fucking Cabot?"

"What?" I swung my head all the way around to look at him.

He peeked around the doorway and grinned, to make sure I knew he was joking.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully.

Except that the only thing I could remember of our conversation were the words _fucking Alexandra Cabot._

What on Earth, I thought, would happen if someone were to actually say to her, _I love you, Alexandra Cabot._ Or worse, _I want to fuck you, Alexandra Cabot. _What would she do? Would she be offended? Would she just walk away? Would she laugh?

And as Brian considerately washed the dishes in the next room, staring at the off-white walls of the apartment we shared while the radio played _TKO_, I felt, for the first time since my attack, a true rush of sexual desire.

My hands flew to my cheeks. I was feverish. In a silent panic, I rose and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I closed my eyes. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run away. I wanted to touch myself, and to think about her. I wanted her. I _wanted._

I forced myself to stare at my disheveled reflection. "Breathe," I whispered. "Just breathe, Olivia. Nothing is going to happen. There is nothing to be afraid of."

But I was afraid of everything. Moving or standing still. My own shadow. My obsession with Lewis; healing, or never healing. I was afraid to want anything.

Most of all, I was deadly afraid that these feelings I was having about Alex were not entirely new. I couldn't remember ever really registering them before, but I dreaded the possibility that they had been there all along, and would somehow always remain.

PAGE BREAK

I decided that the most sensible course of action would be to completely ignore her until she left town. I was intensely glad I hadn't sent flowers. I reasoned that she had been silent and evasive enough with me for the past decade, so for once I could pay her in kind.

I have, at certain times, accused Brian of being insensitive. But tonight, my fragile state didn't escape him. "Hey, hon," he said softly when I finally emerged from the bathroom, my eyes wet. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

I sat down and allowed him to rub my shoulders. I smiled at him gratefully. "I think I'm just having one of those days."

"You're allowed, you know," he said, and kissed my forehead.

I managed to calm down, my heart slowed to a normal rhythm, and my resolve was strong to forget entirely about Alex Cabot. I had enough trouble just breathing in and out; the last thing I needed was cardiovascular failure, and that, in a word, was Alex.

But just before I turned out the lamp to sleep, I heard that long-awaited chirp from my cell phone, and the screen lit up, bright blue.

_Olivia,_

_It was so lovely to see you yesterday. Please say I'll see you again before I go?_


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Pictures of the two murder victims were on display in the squad room, and as I had done hundreds of times before, I stood a few feet away, brainstorming.

"Alice Martinez, 27, and our first victim, Pamela Brice, 31. Different ethnicities, different occupations, living on different ends of the city. But in all probability, they were murdered by the same person."

"Okay. What, or whom, could these ladies have had in common?"

There are some profilers, forensic pathologists, and crime writers who believe that the dead can speak; that even though they are gone they continue to tell the story of the atrocities that befell them in life. I have never liked this turn of phrase. I have always preferred to think of the dead as free, and that when we avenge a person's death, we do it for the living, and for the greater concept of justice. The dead don't speak, because they no longer need to remember.

But as I gazed at the victims' bodies I wondered if I had only been telling myself a pretty story. Can the dead truly rest if their attackers are never brought to justice? Or do they remain, caught somewhere between life and death, trapped in bodies drained of all energy but unable to really depart, to escape that cold metal slab and the prying eyes of the medical examiner, of lawyers, of detectives?

If Lewis had shot me in the head while I was handcuffed, and I had died, would I have rested? Would my eyes have remained open, and amazed, like Pamela's?

I could feel myself retreating into a cold, dark place, and instinctively I knew that in a moment someone would touch my shoulder, and say _Liv,_ or _Olivia, are you all right, where did you go, did you hear what I said. _I couldn't let it happen again, not like this, day after day.

Somehow I found myself straightening my shoulders, and nodding in Cragen's direction as if I had been following the entire conversation.

"What do you think, Liv?"

"I think," I said slowly, steadying my voice in an act of will, "that we should find out if the second victim was also getting a divorce."


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

I was a nervous wreck.

I painted my nails, which I barely ever do, and for good reason, because it doesn't suit me. I did my hair, undid it, and did it again. I tried on six dresses.

I have noticed that a side effect of my post-traumatic state of mind is a pronounced lack of confidence in my appearance. I still have manic days when I strut about more or less the way I used to, but those days are few and far between. Most of the time, when I catch a glimpse of my reflection, I'm surprised to see that I am not standing straight, my head is bowed and my shoulders slumped. I am often more comfortable with my hair uncombed and falling in front of my face. I welcome the distraction of pushing it back, letting it fall again, and pushing it back.

I get angry at myself sometimes. I look in the mirror at the puffy lines under my eyes, at my limp hair, and I tell myself to straighten up, stand tall, be proud. But I feel so horribly weak. In those moments, I hate myself.

Tonight, I wanted nothing more than to look attractive again. I knew it was vain, and frivolous, and that seeing Alex again was a terrible idea, but I didn't care. I finally chose a blue dress that used to feel wonderful, and no longer did, but it was the lesser of several evils. I had put on eye makeup that on second glance looked racoonish, like I was trying to hide my eyes, so I washed it off and forced myself not to re-apply.

The first thing that Alex said to me when she saw me was, "You look beautiful, Olivia."

I had no idea if she meant it, or if she simply knew how much I needed to hear it.

How many times in the past had I shared a meal or a drink with this woman? How many times had I sat across from her, in a restaurant, in her office, at the station, poring over a case or re-hashing the last one that had gone wrong? Yet tonight, I felt as if I were confronting a demon for the first time. I was obsessed with the idea that she would somehow know, or intuit, the effect that she was having on me, and I couldn't allow that to happen. We sat down at our table and casually ordered dinner. Our food arrived, we drank white wine and chatted and blended in with the rest of the crowd, and I felt like the man who wasn't allowed to think of blue monkeys.

Blue monkeys. Blue eyes. Brilliant blue eyes. She wasn't wearing her glasses, and she wore a black dress that made her look like an elegant statue, untouchable.

And all I wanted was to touch her.

I must have turned red or looked frightfully awkward, because she said, "Out with it, Liv."

"Oh lord," I said, undoubtedly reddening further.

"Is it that bad?"

I laughed, in spite of myself. "Actually, I was thinking about...the fact that I wanted to thank you. What you said to me the other night really helped me. I think I'm getting some of my confidence back about this case I'm working."

She nodded, knowing immediately what I was talking about. "I meant every word," she said. "You're the strongest person I know, Olivia."

"I don't know about that."

She didn't say anything for a moment, seeming to consider whether or not she should.

"For a long time after I left the witness protection program, I wasn't at all sure that I could go back to prosecuting. I felt almost like I had become the person I was pretending to be. I was a stranger in my own skin."

I drew in my breath, recognizing that precise state of being within myself. "What changed for you?"

She sighed. "I think somewhere along the line I realized that there is a difference between thinking that you might be broken, and actually being broken. In my experience, the people who really are broken have no idea that they are. Those are the people to watch out for. The Sonya Paxtons."

I shook my head. "Wow, I haven't heard that name in a long time. She's impossible to forget, though, isn't she."

We were quiet for a few minutes after that. It wasn't exactly that I couldn't think of anything to say, but I was terrified that anything I did say would sound like I really meant to say something else. I was beginning to realize that alcohol was, in all probability, my friend.

"I thought a lot about you, too."

"What?" I asked, much too abruptly.

"When I was wondering what to do with the rest of my life. I missed the way we used to be together. You...you always pushed me farther than anyone else, you challenged my comfortable composure. You forced me to look at things in a different way. I knew I couldn't get that back exactly, but...I really wanted it."

I felt myself stiffen, my heart turning painful cartwheels in my chest.

"Hey, well, I'm sorry about that time I requested a new ADA on grounds of professional ethics."

My comic relief had the desired effect – she laughed, and my breathing went back to normal.

"Water under the bridge, Benson."

"Are you glad that you did go back?"

She calmly brushed her hair out of her eyes, and looked past me, at nothing in particular. "Yes," she said. "But WitSec taught me more than just that. It made me realize that I had been holding a lot of things back; that I hadn't been honest and authentic when I really needed to be. Being someone else – it changed me, but really only in the sense that it made me want to be more myself."

She smiled at me lopsidedly. "Does that make any sense?"


	9. Chapter 8

Author's Note: This chapter contains sexual content.

Chapter Eight

By the time we got back to the lovely 73rd street apartment she still kept as a pied-a-terre, neither of us were remotely sober. Our conversation had become effortless, and happily uncensored. We sat like bookends on either side of her sofa, a blanket haphazardly strewn around our legs.

"So, let me get this straight, you're really sleeping with Cassidy?"

I threw my head back laughing. "Well, it depends what you mean by that, I haven't had an orgasm in months."

For some reason this struck us both as hilarious.

"Honestly I know it's hard to believe. Sometimes I can't believe it either, but he really is a genuinely great person. When I first saw him I thought he was the biggest meat-heads I had ever met though."

"Meat-head!" she exclaimed, nearly rolling over on her side. "Oh my goodness."

She tried to straighten herself up, without much success. "What was your first impression of me when we first met?"

I gazed at her from under half closed lids. "Um, you first."

"Okay." She closed her eyes. "When I first saw you, I thought, 'this girl is out to prove something.'"

I nodded in approval. "Well, you were right, I did. And I still do. I just have no idea what it is!" We both collapsed again in peals of laughter.

"It's funny because it's true," I managed, wiping my eyes.

"All right, no more stalling," she said.

I sighed, calming my ragged breath. I looked at her again, her hair falling every which way, one strap of her dress escaping her shoulder.

I was silent for a moment, and then I said hazily, "Tourmaline."

"What?" she asked, still half laughing.

As soon as the memory came flooding back, I forgot about everything that had been so delightfully amusing. My smile faded, and grew wistful.

"I thought that your eyes looked like blue tourmaline. It's a precious stone, I think it's supposed to represent courage, or something like that. I couldn't look away."

"Really?"

"Yes... And then I saw your lipstick. Your bright red lipstick, and I thought that it looked...very perfect. And I thought that maybe, if I could, I would mess it up, just a little, just...like this."

Giving no thought at all to what I was doing, I reached up, took her chin in my hand, and for a split second, I brushed my lips against hers.

As soon as I had done it, my mind snapped back to reality, as if I had been hit with a splash of sobering ice water.

I stared at my hands. _What the fuck did you just do, Benson. You kissed Alexandra Cabot. What the fuck is wrong with you? You cheated on your boyfriend, ruined a friendship, and made a ridiculous fool of yourself all in the same second. Congratulations._

Despite my inebriated state, I knew that I was dangerously close to tears, and that I couldn't, under any circumstances, allow them to fall. I concentrated on my hands.

"You know, I appreciate the sentiment, Detective..."

I looked up to see her perched beside me, glancing sidelong into my eyes, her hair still disheveled, her shoulder still bare.

"...but that was not a kiss."

I felt the room spinning circles around us.

"It wasn't?"

She shook her head. "No."

She looked at me in silence, for what seemed like an eternity. And then, just as I had done, she placed her forefinger underneath my chin, and tilted my head upwards. And she kissed me.

As soon as I felt the gentle pressure of her lips, every muscle in my body became hopelessly weak. I couldn't have stood up if I had wanted to. She guided me to lie back on the sofa, her right hand behind my head. As I lay down, she withdrew briefly, straightened and adjusted her position so that her legs straddled my hips. Both of her straps had slipped from her shoulders. I didn't dare move, or breathe. In a moment she was pressed against me, on top of me, and she gave me her lips again, like water, like oxygen. My hands were trembling when I finally allowed myself to touch her.

But her body was like a fire that was gently building, or perhaps I was the fire, running through her, and she burned. I touched her everywhere, her silken hair, her long neck, her porcelain shoulders, her back, her hips that had begun to move insistently against my thigh.

"Alex –"

"Olivia."

She spoke my name, her lips still touching mine.

"Olivia, do you want me to stop?"

I ran my hand disbelievingly through her hair and along her cheek.

"No," I whispered. "No, I don't want you to stop."

Somehow, I managed to stand, and I lifted her in my arms, and carried her to the bedroom. It was lit only by a small lamp on the bedside table, and the moon that hovered high outside the window. When I set her down, she turned her back to me, gathered up her hair and said, "Unzip me, please."

Wordlessly, I undid the zipper on her dress. I reached for the thin straps, pulled them down around her shoulders, and the dress fell neatly to the ground.

I pressed myself against her, kissing her neck, her shoulder blades, my hands reaching around and crushing her bare breasts. She moaned and leaned her head back against me. She tangled her hands in my hair.

And then she took one of my hands in hers, and guided my touch lower.

_Is this really happening?_

"Liv – wait."

I felt caught in a waking dream, as she turned to face me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and slowly began to undo the buttons that held my dress in place. There was a patient smile lighting her face.

"You are wearing far too many clothes," she whispered.

It finally occurred to me just then, that Alex was going to see me for the first time – all of me, my whole body. Just before she let my dress fall to the ground, she paused, and looked up at me with her searing gaze. It was as if she were waiting to see if I might raise some sort of objection.

I did not give her one. She kissed my lips and guided me onto her bed, where I lay, and gathered her back into my arms. I reclaimed her mouth with all of the passionate force that was inside of me. It was electric. Kissing her left me weak and strong, completely satisfied and desperately craving.

She released my breasts from the black lace bra I had been wearing. She broke the kiss, ran her hands through my hair, and for a moment she kneeled above me, staring.

"You are so beautiful, Olivia."

In an instant, I felt my eyes fill once again with tears.

"I'm not."

She placed a finger on my lips.

"Yes..." she said, kissing my forehead, my eyes, my mouth, my jaw.

"You..." She bent her lovely head, kissing my neck, then my breasts, then my abdomen, running her tongue along my stomach, lower and lower.

"...Are."

"God, Alex!"

My back arched involuntarily. In one swift movement she had dispensed with my underwear and I felt her mouth on the wet, aching folds of my center. I realized then that was no longer any way for me to hide how badly I wanted her.

But she didn't seem to mind.

There was a moment when I finally allowed myself to let go, to fully give myself over to what was happening to me. It was a terrifying loss of control, yet the most blissful loss I had ever experienced. She seemed to read my every wish, every movement of my body and every cry that escaped my lips. She knew me inside and out. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the haunting sensation of her lips and tongue entering me, her hands spreading my legs wider, her fingers stroking me, slowly at first, and then faster, harder, deeper as I fell into ecstasy.

"Oh my God... Oh my _God!_"

I felt my release like a bow and arrow, shooting through my body. It was a shock, a tremendous surprise that transported me back to my purest experiences of pleasure. I gripped the bed sheets in my fists, grasping for anything that would tie me down to Earth. But I flew anyway.

When it was over, I reached for her and she was there, taking me into her arms as I trembled.

"Alex..." I said, my voice shaking.

"Hm." She rested her chin on my head, stroking my hair with her hands.

"Alex."

My mind was almost entirely blank, yet I felt that I had to touch her again, to feel every part of her body. I took her beautiful hand in mine, and kissed it. My lips traveled from her arm, to her shoulder, to her breast. I opened my mouth and circled her hardened nipple with my tongue.

"Oh..." she moaned.

"Alex –"

"Wait. Liv, hang on, look at me. You can barely keep your eyes open. It's time to rest now."

"No – Alex, I want -"

"Shh. I know. And I'm not going anywhere. Please close your eyes for me now, Liv. Please?"

I searched her face, and found that she was looking down at me with an expression of such tenderness, that I could not help but allow my eyes to close. As she cradled my head in her arms, I gave into an exhausted sleep.

PAGE BREAK

I awoke not long afterwards, the moon having barely altered its position in the window. She had fallen asleep, her back against my chest, my arms encircling her. I leaned into her hair, kissing the back of her head too softly to wake her.

"My sweet darling," I whispered into nothingness, into the void. "I'm so sorry, but I just... I need you to stay with me. I'll be all right, I know I could be all right if you would just say you'll stay with me."

I wanted, more than anything, to find the courage to gently wake her, to turn her towards me, to look at her face and say those words, or something like them.

But I was completely paralyzed. I could only lie there, looking out into the night and weeping silently, holding her in my arms.


	10. Chapter 9

Author's Note: A huge thank-you to everyone who has been reading and commenting on this story – it is very, very much appreciated!

Chapter Nine

The light of the sun poured in through the window, bright and harsh. Alex was still asleep beside me, so I kept as quiet as possible, slipping reluctantly out of bed and drawing the curtains halfway.

I could not remember a time when I had felt so wonderful and so horrible all at once. My head was throbbing, and I struggled to piece together all of the events that had led up to this moment: myself, dressed in an oversized t-shirt that did not belong to me, standing in Alex's kitchen. Standing there, wrangling with her bizarre, top-of-the-line coffee maker, and rolling my eyes because she was such a snob.

I took a shower, and I let the water pound down on my face. It felt liberating. And then I remembered. I remembered her touch, her kiss, her face, her hair, in such radiant detail as if it were happening all over again. _Alex._ Why in the world had she wanted me? Why in the world...

Eventually I saw fit to stop using up her entire hot water tank. I dried my hair quickly, wrapped myself in a white towel and prepared for round two with the coffee maker.

"Olivia?"

I heard her calling for me weakly, and when I walked back to the bedroom I saw her sitting up, holding a bed sheet against her body as the sun danced on her skin. I wanted nothing more than to run to her and rip the sheet away. But I stopped, seeing an expression of fear on her face.

"Olivia."

"Hey there." I went to her, and sat a safe distance away. "What's wrong?"

She looked down. "Nothing...I – I thought you had left."

I looked around the room, which was absent of my belongings. "I was just going to get the car. I'm going to drive you to the airport, remember?"

She nodded slightly.

I brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "And anywhere else you'd like to go."

Her lips parted into a shy smile.

I held her face in my hands, and kissed her mouth. It was incomprehensible to me that she could think I would leave her for more than five minutes. She relaxed into the kiss, opening her mouth to grant me better access. Her hands relaxed, she let go the bed sheet, and leaned back, pulling me down on top of her. My tongue invaded her mouth. I kissed her so deeply and for so long that I could feel the pulse of my own arousal becoming unbearable.

"Olivia," she whimpered, drawing my hand to her breasts.

"Okay." I grinned up at her. "Patience."

"No patience."

I could feel her hips moving beneath me, so I slipped my hand between her thighs, over the sheet, not yet making contact with her bare skin. But I could still feel the wet heat of her desire, and it drove me insane. I moaned into her breast, sucking and teasing her nipple with my tongue.

She arched her back and tried to push harder against me. "Liv, please. Please."

"So impatient..."

"I know," she breathed, bucking against my hand. "I can't help it."

In truth, there was a part of me that wasn't sure I really knew how to make love to her. I didn't know if I could give her what she wanted, if I would do for her what other lovers had done, or what she dreamed a lover would do. But when I finally gazed at her beautiful body; as she offered herself to me; as I made contact with her most sensitive places, learning every reaction and every sound she made, committing it to memory, I forgot completely how to think, and how to doubt.

"Olivia..."

It was the way she spoke my name, half whispering, and half crying. It was the way she tasted, the way she felt in my mouth. And it was the way she came, hard, screaming, her muscles contracting around me, that nearly drove me over the edge with her.

"Come for me. That's it..."

"Olivia! _Olivia!"_

She was shaking when I pulled her into my arms, her breathing quick and shallow. I smoothed back her hair, and she fell into me, exhausted. I had never seen her like this before; she was so quiet, so fragile lying in my arms.

"Alex," I whispered.

"I can't talk right now." Her eyes were closed, but she offered me the hint of a mischievous smile.

I lay with her for a few more minutes, stroking her hair while she rested. Then I lifted her chin, and slowly kissed her lips.

_I love you._

"You're going to miss your flight if we don't hurry up."

Her eyes fluttered open. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said, still smiling. "But I'm unable to move."

I laughed. "Well, that is why you get..." In a swift motion, I lifted her, and the bed sheet, in my arms, and carried her all the way across the room.

"...Door-to-door service."

I set her down just outside the bathroom door. "Now you've got to get dressed, or we'll never make it to the airport."

She stayed locked in my arms, looking at me. And then she began to kiss me hard on the mouth, her tongue tangling insistently with mine. I pressed my body against hers, as close as it was possible to be, and still I wanted more. I ached for her.

"Baby," I said breathlessly, having received no permission to call her that. "We can't. Oh God... Alex. You're going to miss your flight."

She pulled back, her eyes dancing. "Yes, but wouldn't you love to hear me explain to the Assistant Attorney General's office why I'm late?"

She stepped inside the bathroom, let the sheet fall entirely to the ground, and then she closed the door coquettishly behind her.

I leaned back against the door, my hand on my chest. I breathed in, breathed out. There was no rhythm I could catch, no way to calm my senses or steady my nerves. I felt like a teenager, out of control. I wanted to follow her inside, grab her roughly in my arms and make love to her again on the bathroom floor.

_Benson. Shake it off. Go and get the car. You are losing your mind._

PAGE BREAK

If there is one thing I know about Alex Cabot, it is that she enjoys talking. She will talk, and argue, for hours on end until she is certain she has won her point. And after that, she will present a slew of other arguments, just to make sure that you realize on how many levels she was right.

For this reason, I knew that her silence, as we packed her things and began our drive to the airport, was for me. If she had had her way, she would have without a doubt been analyzing to death every second of what had happened between us. But I felt that she knew I couldn't express myself, and she wasn't pushing me.

I was incredibly grateful to her, but at the same time overwhelmed with guilt. I couldn't imagine that she wasn't furious with me.

But as soon as I shifted into drive and released the clutch, she took my hand, and laced her fingers through mine.

I felt as if one glance, one word, one wayward gust of February wind might take this morning away from me, and that I could never get it back.

We were silent, still, as we reached the airport. I helped her with her bags, refraining from remarking on her tendency to over-pack. I walked with her as far as I was allowed to go.

My heart pounded in my chest. This was the end. I willed myself to say something, anything. But my will power did not surface, and instead I fixed my eyes in frustration and anger at the sign that read Gate 15. I focused all of my self-loathing onto that sign.

I felt her hand running gently through my hair.

"Goodbye, Liv."

She turned to me, picked up her carry-on bag, and kissed me goodbye. Right there, in the middle of JFK.

I was left alone, with the hated sign, and a hundred people circling around me.

"Attention This is a pre-boarding message for flight 7742 to Charlotte. We are now inviting all passengers with small children..."

My cell phone began to ring, and my hand shook as I fumbled for it in my pocket. _Please don't be him. Please, lord, don't let it be him._

It was Fin. "Hey, sorry to bother you on your day off, but there's been a break in the case. What's all that noise, anyway?"


	11. Chapter 10

Author's Note: This chapter contains descriptions of sexual violence. Please use discretion when reading this chapter.

Chapter Ten

Everything was different, now that she was gone. The sounds of the city that made me jump out of my skin were louder, abrasive, and ever-present. The sun's glare was oppressive, the darkness of the night a nihilistic prison. I was anxious almost every moment of the day.

All of this, and I still couldn't understand nor explain what had happened. It was incomprehensible to me that I had actually made love with Alexandra Cabot; that it was not, in fact, one of my twisted fantasies borne out of some long-repressed desire that I had refused to acknowledge. Had she really told me that I was beautiful? Had she really looked as if she were about to cry, when she thought that I had left? And if she had – _why_?

The repercussions of all of this were inconceivable. And yet, somehow I dared to believe that I had received from her, every moment that we had ever spent together, some type of love; undefined, tenuous, unnamed.

PAGE BREAK

Henry Lawrence Adams, age 29. Caucasian male, single. Employed as an administrative assistant at the Law Offices of Grant & Sons, specializing in divorce.

Adams had been arrested previously, on three charges of felony voyeurism. He had also been a suspect in a case of burglary, wherein some of the victim's undergarments had been stolen, other articles of lingerie cut with scissors and destroyed.

A living victim had come forward, reporting that months ago, someone fitting Adams' description had followed her from the Law Offices of Grant & Sons to a nearby park, and attacked her with a rope. The suspect had fled when the victim screamed and began to draw attention from bystanders.

The classic pattern of escalation for compulsive sexual murderers: voyeurism, sexual burglary, sexual assault, and sexual murder.

Their episodes of violence always have a strong sexual component. They associate sexual gratification with degradation, torture and death. They often pose their victims' bodies in a sexually provocative manner, or engage in necrophilia after committing murder. A common method of attack is strangulation.

I seemed to have developed, in my warped frame of mind, a type of sick sympathy for those murderers who snap because of jealousy or betrayal. The killers who act out of warped love; love gone wrong, passionate rage against the object of desire. At least, I reasoned, those people could _feel _something – something out of the ordinary, something overpowering that ripped them from their normal lives and into an altered state. Sometimes, they couldn't even remember or recognize what they had done.

At least those offenders had a reason. Other times, there was no reason. There was simply instinct. Compulsive, repetitive instinct, reptilian eyes and parasitic bodies, invading the host.

No mercy for the struggling creatures pinned beneath them, pleading for their lives, having done nothing, transgressed in no way. No mercy for the truly innocent. Hatred, and revulsion, for the truly innocent.

We nailed Adams on a deadly cold Friday night, on the fire escape of the apartment building where 34-year-old Maya Jeffries resided. She was in the process of filing for divorce from her husband of two years. The couple was currently separated, and Maya lived alone.

Adams followed her out of the lawyer's office at 5:20. He offered her a ride, and she refused, saying that she had her own car. He then proceeded to follow her from a distance in his vehicle, as she ran errands, made several phone calls, stopped for coffee with a friend, and then returned to her apartment.

By the time she did return, there was no daylight remaining. It was pitch black, and quiet outside the building. Adams had scaled the fire escape. He was either looking for a window, or for a way inside.

"Henry Adams."

He turned around to face me. And he was Lewis.

The placid face, and the hollow eyes. He was Lewis, striking me with the back of his hand. Lewis, standing over me, forcing alcohol down my throat, laughing as I gasped for air, hitting me again, becoming aroused as he hit me, at the sight of my blood. I could feel his erection. I could feel his hand around my neck, pushing upwards. I could feel myself choking, the whole world getting darker.

I fell backwards from the blow, my head slamming against the railing. He had begun to sprint down the steps of the fire escape. His boots banged on the metal stairs. One. Two. Three steps. The sound was intolerable.

_The difference... The difference between being broken... And thinking that you might be..._

My breath returned to me. I couldn't get up after he had struck me, but I extended my leg, and he tripped. He fell head first down the stairs, and I thought that if I let him fall, he might die. There was, in fact, a good chance that he would die.

I wanted him, so badly, to die.

As he fell, I caught his hands in mine. I slammed the handcuffs on his wrists. As I did so, he managed to turn his head slightly. I saw a flash of pale blue eyes.

"Henry Adams, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent when questioned. Anything you say..."

It was an act of mercy.


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

"I wanted him dead. I just... I wanted him dead. He might have been the wrong man. But I saw him falling, and I almost became a murderer."

My therapist looked at me in his odd manner, from behind his bifocals.

"But you didn't. And he wasn't."

I let out my breath. "It looks very much like we arrested the right person. The ADA is confident that there is enough evidence to convict. But that isn't the point."

"What is the point? What meaning do you make of it?"

"I put my colleagues in danger. I allowed myself to be struck by a suspect when I was armed and had a clear view of him. I was not adequately performing my duties as a police officer."

"...And?"

"And it was just another minute, another few hundred seconds that Lewis took from me. Every second... Every second that I'm not okay, is just another second that belongs to him."

"Yes. But what about the rest of the time? The time you spend berating yourself for being less than okay? Are those moments your own?"

I laughed, humorlessly. "I guess I don't have much time to myself these days."

"Olivia, do you believe that you're going to heal from this?"

"I don't know."

"Do you believe that it takes time to heal?"

"Yes, I believe that. But I won't give myself that time. I can't. I've just been fighting it, I guess I thought by force of will alone I could... overcome it, and get on with my life. That I wouldn't have to give him the satisfaction of seeing me become a victim. Because I know what being a victim is. It isn't a few months of PTSD symptoms and nightmares, and being afraid to get close to people. One assault, one rape, changes you forever. I didn't want it to change me."

"But has it?"

"Look at me! I'm not the same. I know that one day I won't be seeing Lewis' face when I cross the street. I know that one day the sound of a tire skidding won't give me a panic attack. And I believe that somehow, I will be able to continue doing my job, because I have to. But as for the rest of it... I will never look at the world the same way again. Not tomorrow, not in five years, not ever. I've lost something, that used to belong to me, and I don't even really know what it is."

"Do you believe that this change in you is necessarily for the worse?"

I can always see my therapist's wheels turning; he is terribly obvious about it. He shifts in his chair, adjusts his glasses, raises his large eyes to the ceiling for inspiration.

"Why don't you tell me about this woman?"

"What woman?"

"You said that thinking about something she told you made it possible for you to refocus, when you had your flashback."

"What do you want to know?"

"Why don't you tell me about her?" he asked again.

"Alex... Well... she's... she's very stubborn. I've known her for a long time."

I said this with great finality, hoping it would end the conversation.

"...Yes?"

I rolled my eyes. "She's an Aquarius. She likes to read. She talks a lot, most of the time, although once in awhile she knows when to stop. Her coffee maker is impossible to operate. She's... she's fearless. She won't give up when she believes in something, or someone. And she believes in the justice system, for better or for worse. I think that what surprises me most about her is that even though she's had to deal with so much deception, and obfuscation and double-talk throughout her career, she has somehow managed to remain incredibly honest."

I had stopped seeing the dimly lit, cream-colored walls of my therapist's office. I had gone back, to her bedroom, to the night we had spent together, to the way I had felt when she was lying in my arms, and I was touching her hair. I felt just as I did then, as if my heart were about to break.

"I always believe what she says."

"It sounds like she may have you questioning more than one thing in your life."

I glowered across the room at him.

"Please remember, Olivia, that I'm not here to attack you, or to judge you. I want you to help me understand why all of this is so confusing for you. Do you trust me enough for that?"

I was silent for awhile, before I answered him. I wanted badly to trust him; I couldn't really feel that I did, entirely, but at the same time, I reasoned that there probably wouldn't come a time when I would trust him any more than I did now.

"For a long time, I... I had feelings for my partner, Elliot. It was a fantasy that I allowed myself to live in, for the better part of a decade. For some reason, it helped me sleep at night, to think that he loved me too, in his way. But I helped to save the lives of his wife and newborn son. And that didn't just bond me to him, it bonded me to his entire family. It became something different than it had been. I didn't love him any less, but I was able to fully accept that we would never be together."

I scanned his face for any sign of a reaction; shock, disgust, contempt - but found none. I allowed myself to relax slightly.

"And then I met Brian, or I met him again, I guess. And he's... well, he's real. And he cares for me, and he's not some kind of screwed-up fantasy."

"I see. And Alex?"

I threw up my hands. "Alex is here today, and gone tomorrow. She's completely unreliable. She just pops in and out of your life at a moment's notice, like it means nothing to her. She can have anything she wants, and I never have had a clue what she wants. She dated some insurance salesman when she was in witness protection."

"To use your words... she is a 'screwed-up fantasy'?"

"Something like that," I said quietly.

"The time that you spent with her, recently, did that feel like a fantasy?"

I laughed. "Maybe! I don't know! We slept together, so the fact that I'm great at cheating on my partner is real enough. Maybe I'm just trying to push Brian away. Maybe I can't stand the idea of being happy."

"Only you can answer that question, Olivia. Maybe this is your subconscious at work, your discomfort with intimacy. But you obviously have a past with this woman. Have you ever seen a future? Do you now?"

Instead of answering, I began to cry. How was I supposed to explain to him that I could see no future without her?

I allowed myself to cry for a long time. I wasn't sure if I was crying for Alex, or for myself, or for everything that Lewis, or the job, or even the events of my childhood, had taken from me. My joy; my innocence. The courage to act on my emotions, to follow my instincts, to walk my own path without shame or regret.

"Olivia, do you love this woman?"

I bowed my head, still unable to stop my tears.

"I can't – I can't say it." The tears washed over me, like waves, at once oppressing and liberating. I felt caught inside my despair, but it was the truest thing about me; it was a reflection of me, in that moment, and I was no longer pretending.

"That's all right. Sometimes it's impossible to say what we feel. But maybe you can..."

It took me several moments to realize that he was slowly inching something in my direction, across the wooden table.

The enemy.

Paper.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

I walked home, the long way, stopping to look in every brightly lit store window, at articles that did not interest me, and at people who seemed so focused on making the perfect purchase, that they would never notice someone standing just a few feet away. A predator, a stalker; someone with bad intentions who had the ability to blend in seamlessly with a preoccupied crowd. 

_That woman, over there. In the green coat. Maybe she doesn't see that there is a man behind her, watching her too intently. He wants to wait until she has finished browsing, follow her quietly out of the store, down the street, around the corner, into the subway. He will follow her all the way home, and watch her from a distance as she unlocks her front door. Maybe he will try to sneak into her building somehow, behind another resident. Maybe someone will just assume he lives there, and hold the door open for him. Effortless. Or maybe, for tonight, just watching will be enough. He will relish watching her, because she is so natural, she has no idea, she would never imagine how easily she could become his victim. How easily she could end up lying naked, in the neighborhood park, or in the laundry room, or her own bedroom, screaming and then gasping beneath him as he strangles her to death._

When the suspect in question paid rapidly for his three lemons and hurried out of the store, casting not a second glance toward the woman in the green coat, I closed my eyes, cursed my paranoia, and willed myself to continue walking.

New York is full of construction sites. It is constantly trying to regenerate itself, to rebuild. The result is that it has turned into a city covered in blue tarps and scaffolding.

But I suppose that is better than the alternative; to let things waste away, or be destroyed.

Finally, waiting at a red light, I managed to make the call I had been dreading.

"Brian... Hey, it's me. Listen, could you come back to the apartment now? Please?"


	14. Chapter 13

Author's Note: It looks like the end of this story will have to wait until 2014, but I hope you enjoy this chapter for now. Happy holidays!

Chapter Thirteen

"Thanks so much for coming back, Bri, I know you had plans tonight."

"That's okay, I feel like I haven't seen you in a week. You sounded serious on the phone... Is it something about the case?"

I shook my head. I felt sick to my stomach.

"Brian..."

There was no way to properly communicate this, at least not in any words that I could find, so I chose his.

"I'm having an affair with Alexandra fucking Cabot."

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

PAGE BREAK

A few days later, Brian moved out of our apartment. I had been dreading that moment, probably for longer than I realized. It was the fear of being alone with my thoughts, of having no other presence in the room to drown out the demons in my head. Brian had been a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, and a companion, someone who remained loyal to me even when I was struggling to remember who I was.

He hadn't said much, which I expected, and he did ask me if I was gay, which I also expected. But I didn't expect the pain to be so evident on his face, or for my own heart to break as it did, when I said over and over, I'm sorry, and held him in my arms.

And now, suddenly, all of the comfort and reassurance that he had given me was gone. Strangely enough, I found that the voices of discord inside me were quieter now that I was alone. Maybe it was because I was finally ready to be alone, or maybe it was the simple act of having told the truth. I felt unburdened; that I could face the world with a clear conscience.

I did not toss and turn at night, I fell asleep easily, and the nights became fewer that I woke up breathing heavily from a nightmare about Lewis, or Adams with his pale blue eyes, or some other predator committing an act of violence.

My therapist had given me a blank page of loose-leaf paper at the end of my last session. I carried it around with me for days, in my pocket, on the dashboard of my car, taped to my bedroom wall - and eventually I brought it back to the next session in sheer frustration.

I cannot be sure if it was something my therapist said, or didn't say, or if it was just the effect of time passing and my mind being perhaps clearer. But by the time the session ended, the page was no longer blank.

My thoughts flowed, if not seamlessly than at least freely, through my pen onto the page.

I continued to carry that piece of paper, placing it in various and sundry locations and wondering what on earth to do with it. There were a lot of things on my mind. There was the Adams trial to prepare for, and I still had to talk to the Captain about what had happened during Adams' arrest. I had to do it for myself, for my recovery, and for the good of the unit.

Finally, on a windy Friday morning, I took the piece of paper, now severely mangled from repeated folding and unfolding, out to my car, and put it back into the glove compartment. But then I took it out again, and clutched it in my left hand as I drove, because for some reason I wanted to be able to see it.

I drove out of the city, following the Holland tunnel into New Jersey. I took the New Jersey turnpike towards Delaware, and then, to the sound of the only reliable radio station I could find, which regrettably happened to be all country, all the time, I drove my world-weary black sedan all the way to Washington.


	15. Chapter 14

Author's Note: Thank you again to everyone who has been reading and commenting on this story! I hope that you enjoy the ending, and please let me know if there are any requests or ideas for a sequel! Much love, Dana

Chapter Fourteen

"_You have been to hell and back this year. And you don't owe me anything, except the truth, which you're obviously telling me... Because let's face it, no one would make this shit up."_

"_Bri, I don't want you to forgive me."_

"_Look, I'm in love with you Olivia, I think you know. But if it's not me..."_

With trepidation I walked through the glass doors of the E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse. I walked the gauntlet, surrendered every metal object on my person, and at the end of the corridor I reached a stern-looking lady who peered at me overtop her glasses and examined my two pieces of identification with great suspicion.

"What was that? Who are you here to see, ma'am?"

"Alexandra Cabot."

"I don't see any... Oh. All right. One moment."

She dialed the three-digit extension as slowly as it was possible to dial using a touch-tone phone.

There were several rings. _Pick up, Alex. Please._

"Assistant U.S. Attorney's Office. This is Cabot."

The moment I heard her voice, all the blood rushed to my temples, and I was unsteady on my feet.

"Ms. Cabot. There is someone here to see you, a... Olivia Benson."

There was a pause.

"Show her up, please."

"Right away." She replaced the receiver neatly. "Eighth floor. Take the hallway on your left to the elevator."

"Thank you," I said, my voice flooded with relief.

There was no mirror in the elevator. I did not know why I had stupidly assumed there would be a mirror. I tried to examine my hair by pulling it over my eyes and flipping it back over my shoulders. Trusting the result of this process not at all, I fumbled for an elastic in my jacket pocket.

When I reached the eighth floor, I had no idea where to go. There seemed to be a hundred tiny offices and I had forgotten to ask for a room number. I walked aimlessly down the dimly lit hall.

"Olivia."

I turned to my left and I saw her, standing in a narrow doorway, wearing her gray skirt and gray suit jacket, ankles gracefully crossed, high heels on, one of them slipping lightly off of her raised heel. Her hair rested gently on her shoulders, and she wore her black-framed glasses.

"Hi."

"Hi."

I stood dumbly staring, until she turned and walked back into the office. I followed, my heart beating frantically. She did not turn around, but stood with her back to me, her arms crossed, looking out the window into the brilliant sun.

"Shouldn't you be at work?"

"Actually," I replied, "I'm taking a few weeks. I... had a bit of an episode during an arrest, and I need some time to get my head together."

She didn't say anything.

"Alex, are you okay?"

She swung her head around.

"Am I okay?" That's an interesting question."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? You don't mean anything?"

I waited a small eternity.

"I just find it ironic," she said icily, placing her hands on the wooden desk and tilting her head slightly, "that you have been utterly pissed with me on more than one occasion, for showing up and then disappearing. But you know exactly where I am, and where to find me. I didn't disappear, and I'm not the one who didn't want to talk."

I continued to stare at her. "Alex –"

"Look, I know that things are complicated for you right now. And I really didn't know what to say that night either. But it's been weeks, Olivia. How about, I don't know, a text message."

She snapped up her cell phone and waved it in the air as if it were Exhibit A.

"'Alex, how was your flight?' 'Alex, did you get home in once piece?' 'By the way, the sex was great, let's do it again sometime.' Better yet, why not send an emoticon? One of those stupid little god-forsaken smiley faces. Those sure say a lot."

She threw the phone back on the desk.

The fact that she was furious filled me with joy, which I did not dare display.

"Alex, I'm so sorry," I said. "I... well, I honestly didn't think that it meant enough to you that you would get this upset."

Her eyes were two blue saucers. "What?" she spat.

"Okay, obviously that was the wrong thing to say."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, walking closer to me with a mystified frown on her face. "I guess I must have some type of reputation for regularly having meaningless one-night stands with my friends and coworkers. I guess I should do a little recon to find out who's been making me out to be the courthouse trollop."

I was incapable of controlling my laughter.

"Alex," I said, getting a hold of myself with great effort, "no one – no one thinks you're the courthouse trollop."

"Well, that's a relief," she said with no humor whatever.

I sighed, and ran my hair through my messy ponytail. She was so completely loveable to me in that moment that I wanted to lift her in my arms and never let go, but I thought she might try to injure me if I did that.

"Alex, I did want to talk to you – I still want to talk to you. But as soon as you left, there was a break in the case, we made an arrest and it's going to trial. And the truth is that Brian and I..."

She looked at the ground, and shook her head vehemently. "Olivia," she said, her voice suddenly trembling, "if you came all the way here to tell me that you and Brian –"

"We aren't going to be seeing each other anymore."

She looked up at me, her face frozen in an expression of shock. I could see that there were tears brimming in her eyes, and I felt as if I was seeing something for the first time, something I had never permitted myself to look at before.

I drew in my breath slowly, unable to take my eyes away from her face. "I came here to give you this."

She did not look in the least impressed as she took between two fingers the unfortunate-looking piece of paper I had been clutching during my entire four-hour drive.

"I realize that it doesn't look like much. But I worked on it for ninety minutes in my therapist's office, so would you please read it?"


	16. Epilogue

Epilogue

_I compare your love to a sacred stone, radiating blue and silver light, a symbol of courage and hope. You have offered this courage and this hope to me for as long as I can remember. But it was not until I had lived through my darkest days that I finally understood what it meant._

_There is no such thing as a life without suffering, a life untouched by hardship, or by the hand of evil, wherever it may be waiting to strike. For years, I believed that I had simply seen too much of the world. But you, my beautiful love, have shown me the truth; that I have not seen nearly enough._

Maybe there is something to this whole writing thing.

I think it might have saved my life.


End file.
